Reaps Gives Deets

Untitled Part 3

CHAPTER 3

Mr. Reaper didn't care that the stolen Vespa was reported to the police. Not that they would do an efficient job of catching him anyway. As the afternoon sun glimmered, he felt invulnerable, which sure he was. The sickle was on his back, between his body and the shirt. It was invisible to mortal eyes. And it did a lot than slicing up bodies.

The earliest reference to sickle is Kronos, the Titan who controlled Time. But people are dumb, they just don't deserve to know the true origins of the sickle. It was especially crafted for the Death's assistant, who was responsible for bringing the dead to purgatory by sizing open a portal on the hearts of the dead. Except those who suffered heart attacks, those guys automatically came. And when it was commissioned from the Almighty, the one in the Heaven (so they say), there was no manual for using it up. The first Reaper, it is said, killed himself. Yeah, death in the realm of death, though no logic could support that.

The Reapers rarely ever saw Death, except for one day every 27836 revolutions of Earth around Sun. And the present Reaper was lucky, in some sense, as it was in his presidency (or should I say reaperacy) that Death had shown himself. That one day, the abstract Death, the thing which Humans didn't care to worship, materialized in purgatory. From there, he would ascend to Earth, for some material things and services he could gratify.

He stopped the Vespa at a red light. There was no one crossing the road, so he might as well go on. No, he didn't care about that. His mind was thinking about something else, something related to the cosmic sickle on his back.

(There was also the time the sickle almost broke, they say. But somehow the thing almost reversed back, they say. Almost as if nothing ever happened. Almost as if time had turned back...)

No, Mr. Reaper thought, it is too dangerous to even think about it. But still.

He sliced the thought, and felt going back few moments ago, when the thought wasn't there.

He crossed the road, just when the green light came on. Lucky for him, otherwise the camera might have alerted the police.

It was afternoon, but still a pink glow remitted on the pavement. Seeing up, the signboard was ogling at the viewer, BERRY AND BURGERS, with the B's in the shape of (how can I explain it?)...leave it. [use mindcroup]

He entered, a certain lifeless aura seeping into this illiterately-lit pink neon place. Don't get me wrong, but who the heck goes with brunch. One or two jerksynonyms. But there were thirty people atleast here. There were two counters, one had neon sign "Berry shakes", with the colours changing every minute, where the crowd was. The other had "Burgers –". The lower portion looked bitten off, and the whole sign was rusty. Heck no cashier was on the desk and nobody grouped near. Mr. Reaper was impervious to, well, whatever kind of stuff he was witnessing. It just wasn't normal. But when do Reapers buy a milkshake from a half-cranked pop shop.

As he entered, a swift tring sounded the exact musical opposite of the very idea of him. It was so unfitting. People literally saw through who he was, maybe because he was so skinny. He made his way to the front desk, but was spontaneously stopped by a bald gummy guy.

"Eh, where you think you are from, eh?"

Mr. Reaper... (Oh please, Mr. Reaper, Mr. Reaper, always Mr. Reaper. Can't he have a name, in Almighty's name. )

[hmmpf.]

(Oh, the tight tape only held out so much, you have started making noises...there...you go)

Let's call him Reaps, no offense.

Ahem, Reaps glared at this chum. He didn't have much time around, he had a task to attend to. And he had planned on getting his strawberry shake, it has been years since he last drank it.